Playoff
by Dakota-Jones
Summary: Sequel to Drive.When Chas returns from his walk of fame, some things have changed, some things haven't. Handling Chas's fame may be too much for John and someone is still aching for revenge against the young prodigy...COMPLETED!
1. Chapter 1

Waking up curled around a warm, breathing body was a foreign feeling to John until this past week.

He sighed softly and nuzzled against the back of Chas's neck, taking in the young man's scent, the feeling of his hair…he let one hand travel over the subtly muscled abdomen, the barely-defined biceps from years of swinging golf clubs…

Chas barely stirred, and John smiled and kissed the back of his shoulders lightly, determined to wake Chas up slowly and pleasantly after how Chas had made him feel the night before.

"Mmm, someone's in a good mood…" Chas said sleepily, and John smirked.

"You…were…amazing," John replied, kissing along Chas's neck between words.

"You weren't so bad yourself," Chas said, turning around in John's arms to face him and give him a kiss. "What time is it?"

John looked over Chas's shoulder at the bedside clock. "Six thirty. You have an hour to get up and dressed for your press conference and round at the Country Club."

Chas snuggled up closer to John, burying his face against the man's chest and closing his eyes. "Don't wanna move."

"Your adoring fans await…"

"Can't they adore me _after_ ten in the morning?"

John chuckled, lifting Chas's chin and giving him a deep kiss.

"You relax, kid. I'll go make breakfast."

John headed for the kitchen, turning around in the doorway to watch Chas stretch. It wasn't exactly a graceful movement, but the boy's now-tanned skin had that morning-after glow to it, and his unruly hair made him seem even more like the Chas that had left for fame four years ago.

Not that he'd changed much at all. He looked a little older, but the personality was still that fun-loving, humble idealism that had amused John from the start.

John started making the chocolate chip pancakes (he'd made them every day since Chas came to visit), and after a few minutes Chas came out of the bedroom, dressed in a red Callaway golf shirt and nice khakis, and desperately trying to brush his hair down.

"M'starved. Shouldn't have skipped dinner," he said with a yawn.

John quirked an eyebrow. "So you'd rather have missed the table sex? And the shower sex? And the-"

"Okay, okay, I get it. And yes, it was worth missing dinner."

"And it's not like you didn't get your protein-"

"Smart-aleck."

John smirked again, and Chas rummaged through his bag before pulling out his calendar.

"Press conference…golf…luncheon with important snobs…golf…charity dinner with important snobs…John, you wanna trade days with me?"

"Not unless you want those important snobs to be _very_ upset," John said, setting a plate of pancakes down on the table. Chas laughed.

"What about you? You comin' to the press conference?"

"Wish I could, kid, but I've got a couple half breeds that need dealing with up in San Diego. All day affair, won't be back till late."

"You gonna drop by my apartment afterward?" Chas said, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. John put his plate of pancakes on the table and gave Chas a look.

"You have an apartment here? For a three month vacation?"

"Where do you think I've been keeping my stuff, John? The trophy case is the size of your bathroom."

John chuckled. "Sure, I'll stop by. Where is it?"

Chas fished around in his bag some more and handed John a business card with all his contact information and his temporary address. At that precise moment, his cell phone began to ring, and John rolled his eyes. That thing rang at least forty times a day- and, guaranteed, at least three times during sex when Chas forgot or didn't have a chance to turn it off.

"Kramer here," Chas answered, and then he listened for a few moments. "Right, right. No, tell Kenya I'll be at the dinner tonight. I wouldn't leave her with that."

John's attention was peaked. A girl? Kenya?

"She wants to know what color _tie_ I'm wearing? Why?" Chas listened a moment, then grinned and shook his head. "Those Hollywood girls and their color coordination…I'll never understand it. Tell her I'll be wearing a red tie." A pause. "What _shade_ of red? Um…dark red. Crimson?"

More squawking from the other person. "No, I don't need a ride, I've got my car with me. I'll meet you at the press conference," Chas said, and then he laughed. "No, I won't show up in a sweat suit this time, I promise. Trust me, Ferguson! I need this local sponsorship as much as you do. Yeah, I've got my clubs…alright. See you there."

He hung up, and John gave him a look. "Who was that?"

"My agent, Leonard Ferguson," Chas explained, sitting down to eat. "He was just making sure everything was set for today."

"Who's Kenya?"

Chas practically choked, and then he laughed. "You don't watch movies at all, do you?"

John shook his head.

"Kenya Pennington. Hollywood actress, my age, just won two Oscars…"

John gave him a blank stare. "She won fish?"

"Not Oscars as in fish, you loser, Oscars as in awards for movies she's been in. She and I are presenters at the charity dinner tonight."

"Oh," John said, feeling something strange about that whole thing. Not quite anger, really, just…

Jealousy.

"You'll have to meet her sometime, John, she's a real sweet girl," Chas said, oblivious to the fact that John was staring at his plate unmoving.

"I'm sure she is."

Chas checked his watch, having scarfed down half his food. "I've gotta go. Knowing LA traffic, I'm gonna be late as it is. See you at the apartment tonight?"

John nodded, and Chas grinned, leaning over the table to give him a quick kiss.

"Love ya. See you tonight," he said, and within moments he'd grabbed his golf clubs and backpack and was out the door.

* * *

It was as if there'd been a plague going on in California for months, and John was the last to know about it.

He went up to San Diego that day, and everywhere he went, that seed of suspicion in his mind was fed and watered mercilessly.

It started when he stopped in a convenience store for a bottled water and a snack, and he happened to catch sight of a name emblazoned on one of the covers on the magazine rack. He tugged the magazine out of the rack, studying the cover.

_Kenya Pennington – Hollywood's Next Halle Berry?_

The girl posed next to the words didn't look a day over twenty. She had skin that was just a bit too dark to have been from a tan, obviously a result of having parents of different races, and John could find no blemish on her. From her large pouty lips and huge chocolate colored eyes to the curves of her breasts and long, dark curly hair, this girl looked like a goddess.

_This is who Chas is spending his free time with? Girls like this?_

John reluctantly bought the magazine and checked his watch. Plenty of time to kill before he met up with San Diego's local exorcist. He sat on a bench outside, idly flipping through the teen magazine. Once he got to the article about Kenya, however, he read it in total.

She was perfect. The girl was down-to-earth, beautiful, had a loving family, hell, she was 19 and already had a directing contract and a beach house in Bermuda. She could sing, dance, write poetry, and spent her free time horseback riding, directing short films and writing music. The girl could do no wrong.

And there…what was that? The article mentioned Chas. Chas had evidently caddied for Kenya in a celebrity golf tournament in Florida. There were pictures, all of the two of them smiling, laughing, having a grand time on the golf course.

One picture in particular made John's heart sink. It was a picture taken at the sixteenth green, Kenya squatted down studying her putt, and Chas leaning over her, one hand on her back, the other pointing toward a spot on the green.

It had probably been just a movement to steady himself so he wouldn't fall, but even the thought that this girl had touched _his_ Chas made anger rise up in John's mind.

John read more about the tournament, his hands tightening on the magazine and practically ripping it when the last paragraph took an excerpt from an interview with Kenya.

_YM: You sure do spend a lot of time with that hot golfing prodigy, Chas Kramer. Is this a hint of relationship to come?_

_Kenya: (laughing) Oh, I don't know about any relationship. Like I said before, I'm keeping my options open. I can assure you that right now we're just friends, but I can also say that he's the nicest, sweetest, and funniest guy I've met in my life. The girl that gets him is going to be the envy of every other girl in the country, that's for sure._

"Constantine?"

John looked up, met with the confused expression of Nichols, the exorcist he was supposed to meet.

"You alright, John? You look pissed as _fuck_."

John shrugged, tossing the magazine into the trash can beside the bench he was sitting on. "Just ready to kick some half breed ass, Nichols. Let's go."


	2. Chapter 2

"Mr. Kramer, we've all heard about Callaway's and Nike's endorsement offers. Have you decided which company you're going to take up with?"

The press conference had started. To Chas, they were all like miniature interrogations, for which reason he was glad to have Ferguson sitting there with him. Ferguson may have been as high-strung as a terrier, but he knew how to breeze over the tough questions.

"We've been in negotiations with the two companies," Chas answered the reporter. "But no decision has been reached yet."

Another reporter piped up. "Are you going to have the deal set in time for the Masters?"

"We're hoping to, yes."

"Are you going to train here, at your home course?"

"That's what I'd planned. My tutor is flying out here next week, and bringing his family. It's going to be a vacation for their kids, and they'll get to golf a lot with their father and I," Chas pointed out, and the press seemed to love that. They scratched away on their pads of paper, until another one raised his head to speak.

"How do you feel about William Dextera announcing that he'll be competing in the Masters?"

Chas looked over at Ferguson, who avoided meeting his gaze.

"I, uh…" Chas started weakly. "I wasn't aware that he'd decided to enter. But I wish him the best of luck, just as I would any other player."

Another reporter quickly butted in. "Sources say that you and Kenya Pennington are going to be presenting awards at the film festival next week. Is that true?"

Chas nodded. "Yes. Kenya and I will be presenters at the earthquake relief charity ball tonight, and we'll be presenting awards at the LA Film Festival on Friday."

"Are you going to caddie for her again this year at the celebrity tournament?"

"It's a little soon to say, sir, but I'm hoping to find time to do that."

"Are you two engaged?"

That question, called out from the back, momentarily knocked Chas off his usual rhythm of answering questions. "Excuse me?"

The reporter tapped the notepad in her hand. "I have sources that say that you and Miss Pennington are engaged to be married."

That caused a bustle among the reporters, all of them murmuring amongst themselves, and it took Chas a few moments to regain their attention.

"I can assure you, your sources are completely wrong. Miss Pennington and I have a purely platonic relationship, and no plans to take it any further," he said, loosening his collar a bit and shooting Ferguson a look. Ferguson gave him a helpless shrug, as if to say 'You got into that mess, you get out of it'.

The reporter gave Chas a smirk. "Then what accounts for the hickey on your neck? Or should I say, who?"

Chas felt the blood drain from his face, and he instinctively reached up to tug his collar up. Ferguson, by then, had taken to the reporter like a Doberman to roast beef.

"That question is disrespectful, uncalled for, and certainly none of your business. Mr. Kramer's personal life is just that, _personal_. I'd appreciate if you kept your questions restrained to the subjects pertinent to this press conference."

The press conference went on as scheduled, and Chas couldn't help but notice when two security guards escorted the intrepid reporter out the back door of the press tent.

* * *

"Chas, a hickey?" Ferguson snapped as they walked into the empty locker room of the clubhouse. "For God's sake, this is _worse_ than that damned sweat suit! Do you realize how this is going to look on the evening news?"

"It's going to look like I'm a normal 21 year old, that's how it'll look," Chas muttered. "Come on, Ferguson, just because I don't have a girlfriend doesn't mean I don't have a libido. And why didn't you tell me Dextera was entering in the Masters?"

"That's beside the point. Necking with random strangers is _not _going to help your image, Chas."

"It wasn't a random stranger!"

"_Was_ it Kenya?"

"No! For God's sake, leave Kenya out of it…"

"Then who?" Ferguson moved around in front of Chas, forcing the young man to look at him. "I can't defend you from these people unless I know the truth before they do!"

"It's _my_ life, Ferguson, I don't have to get approval for who I make out with from you!"

"You're _famous_, Chas!" Ferguson snapped, poking Chas hard on the chest. "Sometimes I don't think you understand that America is watching your every move, all these kids copying your every movement. You wanted to golf, you're good at it, and some people spend their life trying to ruin people like you!"

Chas fell silent, wringing his golf towel in his hands. Ferguson sighed, and then continued.

"If this is anything bad, Chas, we need to get to it before they do. If you're a nymphomaniac, tell me _now_. If you're an alcoholic, tell me _now._ If you don't tell me, they're going to find out first, and then it's all over. Your image is half your career. Without it, you may as well be hitting that ball with a baseball bat."

Chas shook his head. "There's nothing to tell."

Ferguson snorted, his lips pursing, like he always did when Chas was frustrating him.

"Fine. Fine then. But don't blame me if pictures show up in the tabloids tomorrow of you with your tongue down some prostitute's throat!" He snapped, storming out of the locker room.

_There's no way you can sugar coat the fact that I'm gay…and dating an exorcist twice my age_, Chas thought bitterly, dropping down to sit on a bench and putting his face in his hands.

* * *

"I saw your press conference today."

Chas looked up, and was surprised to see Kenya there. She was early, as usual, and she looked stunning, wearing a crimson red strapless cocktail gown that matched his tie perfectly.

"You saw that disaster?"

Kenya laughed, and then stepped forward and began adjusting Chas's tie- he never could knot it right.

"It wasn't a _complete_ disaster, Chas…but it _was_ amusing. Who's the lucky girl?"

Chas grinned and winked. "You'd like to know, wouldn't you?"

"Tease."

"You know it."

Kenya peeked out onto the stage- people were mostly seated. It was almost time to start.

"Well, don't worry about it too much. That reporter was at my press conference an hour ago, asked the same question."

"And?"

"I told her that I didn't feel like repeating what she'd already heard."

Chas chuckled. "I don't know where they get this stuff. You and me? Engaged? That would be…"

"World War 3?"

"Exactly."

Kenya hesitated, the usually painfully outgoing girl momentarily speechless. "Chas…really. You've never kept anything from me, and you rarely keep things from your fans…"

Chas gave Kenya a weak smile. "There's a really good reason for it, Kenya. You know I hate not telling you stuff."

"You know you can always talk to me, right? I won't be mad or anything."

"Of course," Chas said, pulling Kenya into a tight hug, one hand in her soft, curly hair. "You're my best friend, Ken-doll."

"Don't call me that," Kenya said with a laugh.

"Alrighty, Ken-doll."

"Mr. Kramer, Miss Pennington…"

They broke apart to see an attendant standing there, and he gestured toward the stage.

"They're ready for you. As soon as you hear the music, go right ahead."

* * *

John got to Chas's apartment before him that night, and when Chas walked up, he was greeted with a magazine getting thrown in his face.

"Wha-" He started, grabbing at the magazine and turning it around. On the front was the picture of Chas and Kenya hugging backstage at the dinner- and below that, huge block letters that said "Engaged?"

"What the hell is that?" John asked, crossing his arms.

"It's not true," Chas said, sticking the magazine under his arm as he unlocked the door to his apartment.

"They have quotes in there, stuff about people who've heard you sayin' you were gonna _marry_ her," John said, pointing to the magazine.

"And you believe them?" Chas asked. "Last time I checked, John, I was into cock. And I won't be the first to tell you Kenya does not have one."

John actually smiled at that; he couldn't help it. "But…"

"Listen, John," Chas said, pulling him into the apartment and shutting the door. "The press is desperate to hook me up with someone. Anyone. And since Kenya happens to be my best friend other than you, that's who they chose. That hug? That was a friend-to-friend thing."

John took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. "Alright, alright," he said, though he was still unsure deep down. He looked around, getting his first good look at the apartment.

"Damn…you live _here_?" He asked, staring at the widescreen TV, the suede furniture, and the huge picture windows overlooking the city. "…Why have we been having sex at _my_ place?"

"I missed your place," Chas said, tugging playfully on John's tie. "It's cozy."

"I don't have a king sized bed with a pillow top mattress and feather pillows," John pointed out, looking over Chas's shoulder.

"I haven't even tried it out yet," Chas admitted, slipping John's tie off.

John looked down at Chas and smirked. "Sounds to me like we need to break it in." _And distract me from the thought of you necking with that bimbo._

Chas returned the smirk, pulling John toward the bedroom. "I won't argue with that."

"Have you ever thought about…coming out? Telling people about me?"

Chas snuggled up closer to John, his head on the older man's chest, tugging the sheet up higher. John's hand slid up and down his back, comforting and gentle.

"As much as I'd love to, John…you realize what that would mean?"

_It would mean everyone would stop playing matchmaker with you and these Hollywood whores. It would mean I could stand beside you and defend you at every turn._

"Yeah…I know. Career suicide."

Chas sighed, and leaned up to kiss John lightly on the lips. It had to be gentle- _everything_ was sore from them making good use of Chas's bed.

"I love you. Even if nobody else knows."

John kissed the top of Chas's head, still rubbing the boy's back. Chas was right, and he knew it- admitting to a relationship with John would mean the end. It would mean hatred, loss of endorsements, everything.

He loved Chas too much to put him through that…but that didn't make this any easier to handle.


	3. Chapter 3

"John…John, we should stop…"

Kenya wasn't sure she'd heard that quite right. That voice almost sounded like…Chas, though since it was through a door she couldn't be sure. She stopped under the pretence of kneeling down and fixing the strap on her shoe, listening carefully.

A short gasp, a shift. "You've got five minutes before they need you," a husky voice said, one that Kenya recognized from a man whom she'd seen with Chas a lot since he came to LA. Constantine, was that his name? Chas talked about him all the time.

"Ferguson's gonna kill me…if I come out there with another hickey…"

Definitely Chas. But that couldn't be right- John was a friend of Chas's, but twice his age. They couldn't be…

But there it was, a soft gasp, a moan, distinctly Chas's.

She suddenly heard a voice down the hallway say something about getting extra chairs from the storage closet, and she stood up and looked at the tag on the door- storage closet. If she didn't act, Chas would likely be caught in a not-so-flattering situation.

She opened the door and walked right in, shutting the door behind her before anyone could see in. And despite what she'd heard, the sight that greeted her was a shock.

Chas was sitting on the edge of a prop table, his legs wrapped around John's waist, John standing in front of him. There wasn't any room between them, and Chas's head was tilted back and his eyes shut as John nipped and kissed at his neck.

"Break it up, you guys, someone's coming," Kenya hissed, and Chas jumped so suddenly that his shoulder hit John's nose. John stumbled back, his hands flying up to his face, and Chas looked at Kenya with a panicked, desperate look.

"Kenya…I-I…"

"Shut up," Kenya said, walking over to Chas and adjusting his tie and collar, and then smoothing down his hair a bit. "Calm down for a sec."

The door opened and a stagehand walked in, giving the trio a clueless smile as he grabbed a couple of chairs. Within moments he was gone, shutting the door behind him, and Kenya turned to John.

"Are you alright?"

John rubbed his nose and frowned. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine."

Chas still seemed to be in a mental panic. "Listen, Kenya, I can explain-"

"Chas," Kenya cut him off, tugging on his tie playfully. "You don't need to explain, alright? We have a show to do," she continued with a smile, and she could practically feel the relief coming off him in waves.

"A show. Right. Okay."

"At least you won't have to worry about lipstick stains," she added with a smirk and a wink, and John snorted.

The show went on as planned, giving out the Film Festival awards with a good pace and energy. Kenya and Chas were so used to working together that they could play off each other like brother and sister.

Afterward, Kenya pulled Chas aside, away from the crowd.

"So that was your deep, dark secret?" She asked with a smile.

"Well…I just…I didn't…"

Kenya almost laughed. "I don't mind. Really. It doesn't bother me one bit. I love you too much for that to matter."

"And you won't tell anybody?"

"Chas…eventually, someone's going to find out. Of course I won't tell anybody, but you know you can't keep this a secret forever."

Chas looked down at the floor, swallowing hard. "I know. But…I don't think I could handle it, you know? If people started harassing him because of me. Because of who I am."

Kenya hugged Chas, just letting the silence sink in for a few moments before speaking.

"Whatever you decide, Chas, I'll be here for you."

"I know, Ken-doll. I know."

"…You know I hate that, right?"

Chas grinned and looked down at her. "That's why I do it."

"Chas! Chas!"

The hug was abruptly cut off by Ferguson rushing up to them as if chased by a rabid dog. He paused for a moment, trying to catch his breath.

"Ferguson? You alright?" Chas asked, looking over Ferguson's shoulder at John, who simply shrugged.

"I just talked to the editor of Time Magazine, Chas. The editor of Time," Ferguson said excitedly. Chas raised an eyebrow.

"Congratulations…"

"No, Chas, no! He said tomorrow they're releasing the list of the top five nominees for Man of the Year Award…Chas, you're on it. _You're on it_."

Chas blinked a few times, and Kenya's grin widened.

"I am?" Chas repeated, and Ferguson nodded emphatically.

"You are. You made it, kid. The awards ceremony is the week before the Masters. This could mean major endorsements, kid, and just maybe enough leverage to design and open that golf course like you've been wanting to."

Kenya felt a surge of pride. Chas always talked about that little fantasy of his, to have enough sponsorship to design his own golf course and own his own club. For a professional golfer, owning a successful golf course was a ticket to a life of not having to worry about money again, even if your skills deteriorated with age. Kenya had heard endless musings about Chas buying a tract of land close to LA, building a club, and living in the city he called home.

Chas had a look on his face that Kenya rarely saw; that dreamy far-off look, that look that he usually only got in the middle of a round of golf.

"Wow…I, uh…I don't know what to say…"

Ferguson smirked and slapped Chas on the shoulder. "Right now, kid, you don't have to say much of anything. Just keep playin' golf the way you do and that award's in your hands for sure."

"Well, I wouldn't go as far as to say _that_…"

"I would. You're a gem, Chas, a real gem. And with Kenya around, it just makes you look even better. Hey, I've gotta go talk to the Callaway representative, see if I can push the deal a bit."

Quick as that, Ferguson was gone, leaving Chas in a sort of daze. John slowly strolled over, taking a sip of champagne.

"What was all that about?" He asked, and a hint of a smile began to appear on Chas's formerly dazed and shocked expression.

"I'm in the final five for Time Magazine's Man of the Year award," he said, his voice dreamlike.

John stepped back, studied him from head to toe, and then smirked.

"You sure that's not _boy_ of the year?"

Chas shot him a look, and Kenya snickered. But about that time, Kenya was whisked away by a few friends, and soon John got an emergency call for an exorcism, leaving Chas to fend for himself.

Chas did well on his own at parties now. It was a strange social structure to get used to, but he'd become accustomed to the ways people talked. It still wasn't _comfortable_, per say, but he could handle himself effectively and impress the right folks. And that was exactly what he was trying to do when a voice from behind distracted him.

"Well, if it isn't the local hero, Mr. Kramer."

Chas stiffened, and slowly turned away from the people he'd been debating with. Standing there behind him was William Dextera, wine in hand, a smug look on his face.

"Mr. Dextera, what a pleasure," Chas said, extending a hand for a handshake, attempting to be civil. Dextera looked at his hand and snorted, leaving it hanging in empty air.

"Don't try and play up your innocent act with me, boy."

Chas pulled his hand back in, his body tensing more. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"What I mean is that I'm not going to go easy on you simply because you're the favorite pick, kid."

Chas smirked. _So you wanna play it that way, huh?_

"I don't think you'll need to go easy on me, Mr. Dextera. I'd hate for you to finish out of the money."

Dextera bristled; Chas had obviously hit a nerve with that one.

"Don't think you'll have it so easy this time, Kramer. In fact, don't be thinking you'll have it at all. This year's Master's is someone else's to claim."

"What makes you so sure?"

Dextera's smirk widened. "Only the good die young, Mr. Kramer. Does the name Icarus ring a bell?"

Chas's eyes narrowed. "Was that a threat?"

"Of course not. I'm merely pointing out what everyone else has been afraid to say," Dextera said, stepping closer to make sure no one else could hear. "You've reached the top, kid, and there's nowhere to go but down. And when you hit rock bottom, I'll still be right here, wearing the expensive suits and drinking wine. You started out as nothing but a poor kid wearing rags, and that's how you'll end up."

Chas's eyes sparkled with mischief. "For your information, I don't buy three thousand dollar suits even now. It's a waste of money. And for another thing…"

Chas pretended to stumble, knocking Dextera's glass of champagne against him, leaving a red stain all the way down Dextera's white silk tie. He spent quite a few moments acting flustered, apologizing loudly, making sure everyone had noticed the 'mishap'.

"Wine isn't always a luxury. I can throw my tie in the washer with my other _rags_. You can't," he whispered. "Have fun dry cleaning that thing."

With that Chas walked around Dextera to go seek out Ferguson, leaving the half breed absolutely vibrating with rage.

Somehow, Chas knew he might've just made a big mistake…but it was worth it to see the look on Dextera's face.


	4. Chapter 4

"And the winner of the 2005 Time Magazine Man of the Year Award is…Chas Kramer."

It took a moment for it to really sink in- Chas's eyes widened and he sat, stunned, waiting for someone to wake him up. In fact, people were slapping him on the back, whistling, cheering, some calling for a speech, and after a few moments he couldn't help but smile.

He stood up and walked to the podium, giving a shy grin to his audience as the presenter handed him the trophy. He stared at it for a moment in disbelief before the presenter gently pulled him up to the podium.

Chas felt like his mouth was full of cotton, his throat dry, his chest tight. He hadn't expected to win, being up against a Nobel Prize winner and being the youngest among the nominees.

The crowd quieted, waiting on Chas to speak, and Chas chuckled nervously.

"I, uh…well my agent wanted to prepare an acceptance speech for me, but I told him that it wasn't necessary because I was certain I wouldn't win," he said, drawing a laugh from the audience. "Certainly, the other nominees have every right to this honor as well, and I consider it my greatest point of pride that America chose me."

Chas hesitated, and his eyes met John's for a brief moment. John nodded.

"There are just two people I'd like to thank, then I'll shut up so you people can get to the party phase of this shindig," Chas said, and he got a murmur of appreciation and humor from the crowd. "First of all, I'd like to thank Miss Kenya Pennington. Kenya, I can't even begin to describe how much I appreciate you. You've been there for me from the start, introducing me to the right people, helping me make friends in high places…reminding me that a red tie doesn't go with a yellow shirt."

A good laugh from the crowd that time. Chas was feeling better, the nervous butterflies mostly gone. "And I'd also like to thank a man that many of you don't know, though I'm sure you've seen me with him enough," he continued, and then he smiled at John. "John…you're the one who gave me this chance. From the very beginning you were there for me, telling me that I could make it through whatever came up, if I just put my mind to it. You were right. And for having that confidence in me…I can't thank you enough. Every shot I take at the Masters this weekend is for you."

Chas hesitated again, watching people whisper, and watching John blush and duck his head. People who knew who he was were pointing him out to people who didn't, whispering and gossiping.

"Once again, thank you. I won't take up any more of your time. Go have fun, that's what you're all here for anyway," Chas said with a smile, and before he even got off the stage he was getting a standing ovation. As he passed Kenya's table she stood up and hugged him, whispering a quick congratulations and a thank you. He kissed the top of her head, and then moved on to his table.

He hesitated, smiling at John. As if he understood without words, John stood up and pulled Chas into a tight hug. Their first hug in public. Anyone watching could convince themselves it was a 'thank you' hug, strictly a friendly gesture, but to Chas it felt as intimate as a hug in a room alone.

"Thanks, kid," John whispered before pulling away and ruffling Chas's hair. Chas grinned and they sat down, listening as the presenter finished up the ceremony.

Soon the people moved into another room, which turned into a party (actually, Chas wouldn't call it a party, more like rich people's version of a party), with lots of wine, snacks, and a string quartet playing.

A waiter offered Chas a glass of wine, and he took it, walking over to where Ferguson was talking with one of the other nominees, a prominent movie director.

"Well, if it isn't the man of the hour," the director said, shaking Chas's hand eagerly.

"Chas, I'm sure you know Tellier Louis," Ferguson said. "I was just talking to him about a possible movie deal."

Chas took a drink of his wine. "Movie deal?" He repeated, confused.

"I've been following your career closely, Mr. Kramer," Louis said, his French accent slightly muddling his words. "And I'd like to have the rights to a movie based on your life and career."

"Wow," Chas shook his head in disbelief, momentarily speechless. "Wow. I…I'm flattered, sir, really…"

Louis's smile widened. "And I'd like to take a new course with the biography movie tradition. If you give me the honor of telling your life story, I would like you to star in the movie. As yourself. And Kenya as herself as well."

Ferguson grabbed Chas's shoulder. "3 million for the rights. 2 million to star in it," he said, and then he leaned in. "And with this guy's track record, you could make millions after the fact just from the promotion and appearances."

Chas was grinning from ear to ear. "Really? Seriously? You want _me_ to star in my own movie?"

Louis nodded emphatically. "Nobody else could capture your humor, and that swing of yours. And it's not as if you're sore on the eyes, my friend."

Chas blushed and laughed. "Thank you. I guess Ferguson can set up a meeting, we can discuss this more, but…to be honest, I'd really love to take up this project."

Louis shook Chas's hand again. "Thank you, Mr. Kramer. I'll get my best screenwriter on the project, see what we can come up with before the meeting."

Ferguson and Louis started chatting away, and despite the giddy feeling from the news he'd just received, he felt a little…dizzy. Off-balance. He took another drink of wine, hoping to settle his stomach- it was probably because he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast.

"Chas!"

Chas turned around and spotted Kenya and John waiting on him across the room. He headed over there, trying to shake off the sick feeling.

"What was that about?" Kenya asked. "You looked pretty happy over there."

"Louis wants to do a movie about me," Chas said, still a bit numb to the prospect.

"You should've expected it. You're hot stuff, Chas," Kenya said with a smirk. Chas would've laughed if he didn't feel so damn awful now. He felt so hot he was sure he was sweating, his stomach was churning, and he felt a headache coming on.

"That'll be a box office snore," John teased, and Kenya smacked him with her purse. Another dizzy spell hit Chas, another wave of nausea, and he raised a hand to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Chas? You alright?" Kenya asked, and Chas nodded.

"Yeah, just a headache. I think I'm gonna head home early," Chas said, and John's eyes narrowed.

"Want me to drive you home?"

"No, I'll be fine," Chas insisted, taking another sip of his wine before setting it on the tray of a passing waiter. "Besides, you have that early flight to Italy tomorrow, don't you?"

"Yeah, but-"

"No buts, John, I'm not gonna let you stay up babying me when you have a full day ahead of you," Chas said. "I'll be okay. I'm just gonna go home and sleep it off."

Kenya shrugged. "Call me or John if you need anything, alright?"

"I will."

* * *

By the time Chas made it to his apartment, he knew something was very wrong.

He had barely made it inside before the dizziness and the nausea became overpowering. He stumbled and leaned against the wall, the floor uneven and moving beneath his feet.

_Call Kenya. Call John. 911. Anybody, _he thought, fumbling around for his cell phone. He stumbled and fell against the wall this time, the cell phone dropping to the floor. He reached for it…only to have it kicked away from his hand.

He didn't even have a chance to look up before a hand grabbed the back of the collar of his shirt and yanked back, and then a hand covered his nose and mouth. Too disoriented and weak to fight the attacker off effectively, Chas could only kick and attempt to scream until another person grabbed onto his feet.

"He's almost out. Let's go, out the back," a voice said, a voice that was distant. Chas couldn't struggle anymore; he was too dazed, too confused, and in too much pain. As they lifted him from the floor, the hallway spiraled into darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

John was worried.

He'd told Chas that he'd give him a call before he left for the airport, but when he called, there was no answer. He called Chas's cell phone twice, then called his apartment number twice, and then even went as far as to call Ferguson, Kenya, and the Country Club clubhouse. No one had heard from Chas since he left the party the night before.

John looked at the clock and sighed. If he didn't head for the airport now, he'd miss his flight for sure. But…Chas was missing in action. And that wasn't Chas-like.

He left his suitcase sitting in the middle of the kitchen and headed for the door. Maybe Chas was too sick to get to the phone. Or maybe he'd never made it back to his apartment- what if he passed out in a hallway or something, and was lying there, all alone?

John took a cab to Chas's apartment building and marched inside, heading down the hallway to the elevator. Halfway there, though, something on the floor caught his eye.

He kneeled down and picked it up, looking it over. It was definitely Chas's cell phone- and the small screen on the front of it was cracked. The jumbled, pixilated clock had stopped at 11:32pm.

John cursed loudly. Chas either had been too sick to realize he dropped it…or he hadn't actually dropped it.

_Don't think like that. He's in his apartment, just sleeping. Really deeply._

He ran the rest of the way to Chas's apartment, then spent three minutes banging on the door and yelling at Chas to get up and open the door. There was no way Chas could sleep through that.

For one of the first times in his life, John actually called the police.

He spent fifteen minutes arguing with the dispatcher. The dispatcher insisted that despite Chas's celebrity status, that didn't change the fact that he had to be missing for 48 hours before they could take any action. John wasn't having any of that- he put up such a fuss that she finally agreed to send a unit to the building to have a look at the security camera tapes.

The police couldn't come fast enough for John. He paced in the lobby, and when they finally arrived, he pounced on them like a starving dog.

"Listen, sir, we'll do what we can, but if they don't want to show us the security tapes we can't force them to. We'd need a court order, and with no evidence of foul play that's not going to happen," one of the officers said, heading for the front desk. He spoke briefly with the girl there, who said that Chas had come in the building at around 11:30 last night, and he hadn't looked too good. She would've offered help, but her boss had forbidden her from speaking with the celebrity clients unless they spoke first.

"Did he leave later? Did anyone come in after him?" The officer asked.

"He didn't leave. The only people who came in after him were the vending machine guys."

"Vending machine guys?" John repeated, stepping forward. The receptionist shrugged.

"Yeah. They usually come in about 10:30, but they ran late yesterday. They came in and went out the back to their truck."

Now even the cops were beginning to look suspicious. One of them cleared his throat. "Ma'am, may we have a look at the security tapes from last night?"

The girl shrugged. "Sure, whatever. The security room is right over there, just tell Steve what tapes you need to pull up."

When they entered the security room, 'Steve' was leaning back in his chair, mouth side open, fast asleep and snoring loudly. John would've given him a strong slap if he didn't think the guy might refuse to show them the tapes then.

"Sir?"

Steve snapped awake, and immediately began fumbling on his computer when he saw the policemen to hide the paused porn video. The policemen rolled their eyes and gave each other a look.

"How can I help you, officers?" Steve asked, loosening his collar nervously.

"We need to see the security tapes for last night, around 11:30. The lobby, the main hallway, and the 9th floor hallway."

Steve mumbled and rolled his chair over to a wall full of shelves of tapes, picking out the right ones.

"Main lobby," he explained, popping in a tape and cuing it up. Just like the receptionist had said, Chas walked in the door at just about 11:30 on the dot, looking dazed and quite ill. He stopped, wavered, and then stumbled on toward the hallway. A few moments later, two men in blue jumpsuits walked in, nodding to the receptionist before continuing on.

Steve moved on to the next tape, seeming unconcerned. He popped it in and cued it up.

Chas stumbled into the hallway and fell against the wall, and moments later, fumbled around for his cell phone. He wavered again, this time falling to the floor.

John's throat tightened as he watched the men in jumpsuits walk up to Chas. One kicked the cell phone away from Chas's hand, and then grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him up backwards, covering his mouth before he could scream. Chas was struggling, but it just wasn't enough- the other man grabbed onto his feet. The men said a few quick words, and by the time they started toward the back door, Chas was completely limp in their arms.

John was seething, his fists clenched tightly. He couldn't handle this. He had to take this out on someone, anyone.

He grabbed Steve by his jacket, pulling him up and slamming him against the wall.

"Too busy jackin' off to notice a _kidnapping_, Steve?"

"N-No, I-"

"You're lucky I don't cut off your-"

"That's enough," one of the officers said, pulling John off Steve as the other officer called in the kidnapping and asked for a crime scene unit and an all-points bulletin.

"Mr. Constantine, we need you to go home immediately," the officer said, dragging John out of the security room.

"What? Why? I have to-"

"You're close with Mr. Kramer, aren't you?"

"You could say that…"

"So if these people want a ransom, they're going to either call you or Kenya. We need you to be at home with a few officers so we can record and monitor any calls you get."

John sighed heavily. He would've liked nothing better than to do the job himself, chasing down those guys and blowing their brains out for touching Chas, but kidnappings weren't his thing. Half breeds and demons were his thing.

Reluctantly, he let the officer drive him back to his apartment. But it ended up that they didn't even have to wait for a phone call. There was a plain, small cardboard box sitting against his door, and the officer with him opened it up after putting on gloves. Inside was a videotape.

A couple more officers showed up there with phone tapping equipment just before they put in the tape, and John and the three officers stood around the TV as John pressed play.

There was just static for a few moments, then the picture came up. The same men from the apartment building were there; they hadn't even bothered with masks. Chas sat in a chair onscreen, strapped to the chair with leather belts, his hands tied behind him, and gagged and blindfolded.

_At least they haven't hurt him, _John thought, his throat tightening.

There was some shuffling off camera, and then one of the men stepped over to Chas with a knife, yanking his head back and putting the knife to his throat. Chas made a muffled sound of protest, his body tensing.

"On Monday night, at midnight, we want Constantine to deliver 2 million dollars in cash…small bills…to the backlot of WB studios. Studio 94. Any sign of cops, Kramer's dead," the man said, obviously reciting scripted orders. The other man stepped forward, and before the tape cut out he punched Chas hard in the stomach. Then…static.

John turned around and threw a chair across the room with a cry of frustration, startling a couple of the cops.

"I'll take this down to the station and get those two jokers ID'd," one of them said, taking the tape out and leaving the apartment.

"I'm leaving," John growled out. He knew exactly where to start in looking for the man behind this - his biggest clue was that Monday was the day _after_ the Masters. Only one person would benefit more than any man in America that Chas may miss the Masters. Why else would the kidnappers wait so long for their money?

"Wait, you can't leave!" A cop said, and John gave him a glare that could melt steel.

"You go ahead and try to stop me."

Nobody did.

* * *

A door opened, then closed. Chas lifted his head, listening carefully.

"Did you deliver the tape?"

"Yep. He was still out lookin' for the kid."

"Too easy."

Silence for a few moments. Chas shifted in his seat, trying to loosen the ropes on his hands; it felt like his circulation was being cut off.

"Is he _still_ trying to get out?"

No answer. Then a hand tangled in Chas's hair and yanked back roughly, inciting a muffled cry of pain from Chas.

"I told you to stop movin', kid, or I'll shoot you right here and now."

Chas would've given anything to be able to shoot back a snarky response, but the gag was still in. The man let go of his hair, and Chas jerked forward from the sudden movement.

"Why can't we just kill him now, bury him in the mountains before he causes trouble?"

"We have our orders."

"Yeah, but-"

"Listen, Tyler, I'm not takin' any chances. That 5 million is sounding better and better every second."

_Five million? _Chas thought, confused. _They only told John two million. Where's the rest of the money coming from?_

"I still think we should just kill him now. It's not like we're planning on actually turning him over with the money."

"We wait till Monday. Then, we kill him, get our money, and get out. No arguing, Tyler. What's he gonna do? We've got him strapped down so tight he can't even lift a finger in our direction. And he'll stay that way until Monday night."

The other man, Tyler, snorted. "Unless he starves to death. I tried to get him to eat earlier, he wouldn't."

"So we'll force feed him. We have to get the other two tapes out to let the cops know we've still got the kid and he's not dyin' or nothin'. Don't worry so much."

The two men became engrossed in a card game, leaving Chas to his own thoughts. Mainly thoughts of how the hell he was going to get himself out of this one, thoughts of not being found in time.

He needed to come up with a plan.

He needed John.


	6. Chapter 6

When John stormed into the BZR Corporation building, not even the security guards dared to get in his way.

He went straight to Balthazar's office, shoved the door open, ignored the client sitting across from Dextera, and grabbed the half breed by the lapels and threw him down on his desk.

"Where the hell is he?"

Balthazar raised an eyebrow at John, and the client made a beeline from the room, eyes wide with terror. He'd no doubt be calling security up.

"I haven't the slightest what you're referri-"

"Don't give me that shit. Your only shot at the Masters was getting rid of him."

Balthazar frowned. "I sincerely doubt that, Johnny-boy. If something happened to Chas, it was more than likely someone with a grudge against _you_."

John snarled, picking the half-breed up and slamming him down against the desk again.

"I won't ask you again. Where'd your goons take him!"

Dextera didn't get a chance to answer. Two security guards had finally mustered up some courage and grabbed John by the back of his jacket, pulling him off their boss and holding him back.

"Thank you, gentlemen," Dextera said to the officers, standing up and straightening his jacket. "Kindly remove this man from the building, would you? He's mentally instable."

The guards did just that. They dragged John downstairs and literally threw him out the front doors onto the hard cement steps.

John yelled obscenities at them for a few moments before finally giving up and shutting up. He sat on the steps, his logic in shambles, trying to come up with his next move.

Things weren't looking good.

* * *

Chas was in a helluva lot of pain.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he was still tied, gagged, and blindfolded in the same position as when he'd woken up. His arms were aching, his hands were tingling, and his shoulders were wrenched around in a way that couldn't be good for his golf swing.

The most his kidnappers had done was to remove the gag and try and force Chas to eat, which he'd easily avoided. For one, he couldn't even see what they were trying to shove down his throat, like hell was he going to actually swallow it. And for another, it would be giving in to the same idiots who'd kidnapped him.

He was desperate, and he made a desperate, clichéd move. He let his head fall forward onto his chest, and then relaxed his body as much as he could.

It was less than ten minutes before he heard Tyler's voice say, "Hey, hey Brian…the kid ain't movin'."

"So?"

"So maybe he already starved or somethin'."

Chas heard the sound of a sharp slap. "You idiot, it takes people days to starve."

"How do we know when he last ate though?"

"He's not anorexic. He's a golfer. They eat all the time."

"How do you know?"

"Cause there was a really fat kid on my high school team."

"Oh. Well, that kinda makes sense."

A pause.

"But are you sure he's okay?"

A groan. "I'm goin' out to get more beer. Don't touch the kid."

The screeching of a chair sliding against the floor, then Chas heard the door open and close. He listened for Tyler, heard a few shuffling sounds, but then footsteps coming over to him.

He felt Tyler tug the blindfold up, but he kept his eyes closed and his head limp.

"Hey…hey, kid, you okay?"

Chas didn't respond, even tried to keep from breathing too noticeably. He felt the gag tugged down next, but made no response to that either. He was waiting, waiting for Tyler to do something stupid.

"Come on, wake up," Tyler said, slapping Chas's face lightly. Chas still didn't respond.

Finally, Chas felt Tyler's hands on the leather belts tying him to the chair. Those came loose, followed by the ties on Chas's wrists. His acting must've been pretty convincing, if Tyler was worried enough to untie him. Then again, Tyler wasn't the brightest crayon in the box.

The second his hands were free, Chas pivoted in the chair and swung hard, his fist catching Tyler in the jaw. The man went down, but wasn't out, and now Chas's fist hurt like hell. He paid no attention to that- he took off toward the door, which was further away than he'd approximated. He was in some kind of prop room, filled with strange scenery pieces and props, and he could hear Tyler scrambling to his feet already.

He reached the door, threw it open, and ran right into someone- and that someone was obviously a very pissed off Brian.

Chas put up the best fight he could manage. He landed more than a few punches and kicks, screamed for help, but in the end it was two against one and the numbers won out.

The last thing he saw before the world went dark was a two by four hurtling toward his head.

* * *

The last thing John expected to find at his apartment was a sobbing, hysterical Kenya.

She was leaned against his door with her face in her hands when he approached, and when she heard his footsteps and looked up she pulled him into a tight hug.

"These reporters were at my house, t-then the cops called…" she sobbed, and John stroked her hair, trying to calm her down.

"Ssh, it's alright, kiddo. Did they show you the tape?"

"N-No…"

"Chas is okay. They haven't hurt him, and they're not going to."

Kenya sniffled, sighing heavily. "I should've known something was wrong last night. Chas doesn't get sick, he just doesn't, and when he does he doesn't _tell_ anyone. I should've known."

"Nobody could've known that this was going to happen. Don't beat yourself up over this," John said, forcing a smile. "Besides, if I have things my way, we'll know where Chas is within the next hour."

Kenya looked skeptical, yet guardedly hopeful. "An hour? How…"

John held up the brown paper sack he was carrying. "I'm an exorcist. Spells are my thing," he said vaguely, unlocking his apartment and gesturing Kenya inside.

"What kind of spell? What could a spell do? I thought they were just to put curses on people, stuff like that," Kenya said, closing the door behind them.

"Well, in order to affect a person with a spell, you have to already have some kind of connection with them. Otherwise I would've already struck those two bastards down with a curse," John explained. "But Chas is another story."

"You aren't going to put a curse on _Chas_, are you?"

John laughed. "No. I'm going to put a kind of spiritual GPS on him. It won't last long, but if I do this right, I'll be able to tell exactly where he is. So you can go home, relax, stop worrying so much…"

"No. I want to help," Kenya said stubbornly.

"You're as bad as Chas."

"Damn right I am."

John sighed, and started unloading supplies from the bag. "I really don't think it's a good idea for you to be here during the spell-"

"I can handle it. I deal with critics on a daily basis, a spell will be no problem," Kenya insisted. John stared at her for a moment, considered, and then thought of what Chas would say.

He picked up three bags from the table and handed them to Kenya. "Three herbs, one in each bag. Boil some water for me and add those in. It's gonna smell like shit, probably give you a headache."

She didn't hesitate. As he prepared an herb circle on the floor and found the appropriate relic, she followed his directions with an exactness that he hardly expected from a Hollywood girl.

It took half as much time to set up as it usually would've with just him, and he studied the ritualistic Latin that he would need to use once the ritual got started as Kenya finished up with the herbs.

"They're ready," she said quietly (wrinkling her nose from the stench), and John motioned for her to put the pot just outside the circle on the floor.

"It would be best if you went into a different room while I'm doing this," he said, and for once she didn't argue. She went into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, nervously tracing the stitched-in crosses on the bedspread with her fingers.

John took the last part of the ritual from the table- one of Chas's shirts that he'd left behind here. It still smelled like Chas, and John couldn't help but just hold it close for a few moments, taking in the uniquely Chas scent and for once praying to God that the boy would be okay.

He stepped inside the circle, and the ritual began.

He opened his mind to the outside world, dropping all barriers, the scent of the herbs furthering the process of allowing everything and anything in. His grip tightened on the shirt, and Latin words began to spill from his lips as voices filled his mind.

The floor was beginning to heat up beneath his feet, so much so that steam was curling up from the floorboards, and the water in the pot began to bubble again. He reached out with his mind, searching, the shirt dragging him in a direction- the rest was his job. A possession couldn't do everything for the ritual.

There. It was there, weak, but definitely his Chas. He reached out further, his words louder, the floor sizzling beneath his feet.

His grip tightened. His concentration wavered as he realized that Chas was unconscious and in pain, but he grabbed on once again, before the connection got too foggy.

_Chas_.

There it was. That snap, that connection, it was there. He'd done it.

He dropped to the floor, barely missing the pot of boiling water, his mind snapping back into reality and the protective walls coming back up. Kenya rushed into the room and kneeled next to John, her hand jerking back from the floor within a second of touching it- it was scalding hot.

"Are you okay?" She asked, her brown eyes wide with concern. John slowly sat up, searching his mind.

Chas's presence was still there. Not active, but noticeable.

"I know where he is."


	7. Chapter 7

Chas woke up with the worst headache of his life.

His kidnappers hadn't bothered with the blindfold, but he was once again strapped to the chair with his hands tied even tighter behind his back, and he was still gagged.

His neck hurt like hell, and he immediately noticed the not-quite-dry blood on his shirt. No wonder he had a headache.

He looked up and saw that Tyler was gone, and Brian looked pretty damn bored, sitting there with his shotgun in his lap. He noticed that Chas was awake, but didn't say a word to him.

_You've failed. You had your chance, you lost it, and now…_

Chas felt determination well up in his mind again. He had to figure out a way to get out of this, before Brian began to agree with Tyler that he was too much trouble to keep alive.

Besides, he had a title to defend on Friday, and like hell was he going to miss it because of a kidnapping.

He once again began testing the straps that held him down, but all he got for that was a sharp punch to the ribs from Brian, who wasn't taking _any _shit from Chas now.

Tyler walked in with a pizza box and three beers in hand, and he dropped them onto the table, giving Chas a flash of a fresh black eye. Brian obviously had raked him over the coals about untying him. The appearance of food was enough to remind Chas that he hadn't eaten for what seemed like forever.

"Should I try and get him to eat again?" Tyler asked, eyeing Chas. Brian shrugged.

"If you wanna get bitten again, go right ahead."

Tyler looked back and forth between Chas and Brian for a few moments, then pulled out a slice of cheese pizza from the box and walked over to Chas.

Chas scowled at him as he yanked the gag off, already decided that he wasn't afraid to bite if they tried to force-feed him again.

"C'mon, kid, don't make me do this the hard way."

"Fuck you," Chas snapped, turning his head away from the offered food.

Tyler scowled, reached for Chas's face…and promptly received a bite to his fingers. He yelled in pain and jumped back, rubbing his hand and dropping the pizza to the floor, letting out a string of obscenities.

"That's it, you little _bastard_," he growled, stalking over to the table and grabbing one of the beers, wrenching the top off it. He walked back over to Chas and grabbed him roughly by the chin, forcing his mouth open.

Chas wasn't prepared when Tyler shoved the bottle into his mouth and the foul-tasting alcohol spilled in. He choked and coughed, but Tyler still had a grip on his chin, keeping his head tilted back and the bottle shoved almost against the back of his throat.

He tried to swallow it, but it was far too late for that- there was too much in his mouth. Now he only felt like he was drowning in alcohol, suffocating helplessly.

Oddly enough, it was Brian who saved him. Brian grabbed Tyler's shoulder and pulled him back, and the bottle fell to the floor. Chas coughed and hacked, spitting the alcohol out and gasping for air.

"If we kill him, it's gonna be bloody and showy," Brian said calmly, and Tyler scowled at Chas, who was still coughing.

"If it was my choice, we'd go get the money from Dextera and kill him _now_," Tyler said, and moments later his eyes widened in horror. Brian sighed heavily, and then he punched Tyler hard in the jaw.

"Great job, just great. Now we _have_ to kill him ahead of schedule," Brian snapped. "Can't you ever do anything right!"

"It doesn't matter, we were gonna kill him anyway!" Tyler insisted, cradling his jaw and cowering. Chas was busy taking in what he wasn't supposed to hear- Dextera. He should've known. These two losers wouldn't have had enough guts to pull this off on their own, they needed a backbone. Dextera's offer of money? That was what sank it. That was why they were so eager to play this by the book.

Brian had already begun to unstrap Chas, but left his hands tied, pulling him up out of the chair and shoving him toward the door. Chas fought back, kicking and screaming, but the two men quickly got him under control and dragged him outside.

It was night. Chas wasn't sure how much time had passed, but they were in some kind of backlot, full of buildings that looked like warehouses. There was nobody around.

_You're about to die, Chas._

He shoved the thought aside and continued to fight, not giving up by any means. He wasn't about to let Dextera screw him over like this and leave John utterly alone.

"Right here. We can shove the body down into that drainage ditch when we're done," Brian said, struggling to keep Chas still as they stopped behind one of the big warehouses. Tyler grabbed Chas and shoved him down to his knees, a gun cocked, then…

_**BLAM!**_

_**

* * *

**_

John had spent the last hour trying to get the police to do something. He knew where Chas was, but going in alone was risky, and the police were experienced in this type of thing.

Of course, that wasn't helping him when they told him he was under too much stress and needed to go home and sleep.

Kenya stuck with him, though. When they pushed him out the front door of the sheriff's department she was there to hold him up, and when a reporter (or many reporters) found them, she was the one who knew exactly what to say and how much to say to get them to go away.

"If they're not going to do anything, I'm going there myself," John muttered, rolling up his sleeves. Kenya crossed her arms, and at first John thought she was going to be the typical high-fashion female and tell him he should let the cops handle it.

"If you're going in there all gung-ho, then you'd better take some weapons. And you'd better have backup."

"Oh, hell no. I'm not taking you."

"Oh, hell yes you are. I worked on the set of a Matrix-esque movie, I know how to work a gun."

"Those Matrix movies were so damn fake. And so was the lead actor."

"I said it was Matrix-_esque_. Matrix plus realism."

"I'm still not taking you."

"One hundred thousand dollars."

"Are you trying to _bribe_ me?"

"If that's what it takes."

John sighed, and then shrugged. "Fine. No bribes, you can come. But you're staying in the car when we get there."

They got back into Kenya's Porsche (which she insisted that she'd never let John drive in a million years) and she followed John's directions. He was tapped into Chas, the emotions and pain like a beacon, getting stronger as he got closer.

"Here. Turn here," he said, and Kenya frowned, but made the turn.

"This can't be right," she said. "This is the studio backlot. Nobody can get in here without a pass."

"The cops said one of the guys is a janitor at a movie studio," John explained, the pieces falling into place. "He would be here all the time. It wouldn't be suspicious at all."

John was suddenly glad that he hadn't made Kenya stay behind. The guard at the backlot was more than happy to let them through, with her celebrity status. They'd just pulled through the gate when another shock of emotion came through, and John's fists clenched.

"He's being moved. We've gotta hurry," he said, and Kenya nodded, pressing her foot down harder on the gas.

"Where to?"

"Take a right up here. He's…he's by some kind of water."

Kenya glanced over at John. "There's a retention pond out behind the backlot."

"No, it's not that…"

"What about drainage? There're three channels to run water from the studios where we shoot water scenes."

"Go to the closest one. We'll follow it toward the back."

Kenya followed a side road to the drainage canal she's talked about, and then she turned and began following the ditch toward the back of the lot. She was visibly nervous, her grip tight on the steering wheel, chewing on her lower lip lightly.

"Wait…wait, stop," John said, and Kenya slammed on the brake, jerking John hard against his seatbelt. John hesitated, and then scrambled to get his seatbelt undone, fumbling for the door handle. "Something's wrong. I've got to…"

Kenya was already dropping a gun into his lap, grabbing a gun herself, and practically leaping from the car. John stumbled out of the car, and then took off running, skidding around the corner of the next warehouse. The sight that greeted him was mind-rattling.

Chas was on his knees on the ground, and a guy stood behind him, a gun aimed at the back of his head.

John lifted the gun, and quite suddenly the scene was like an old Western shootout- the first one to shoot would win.

_**BLAM!**_

The man with the gun crumpled to the ground, and John moved the gun to point at the other guy. He didn't move fast enough, though- the man grabbed Chas, yanked him to his feet in front of him, using the boy as a shield. The guy fumbled in his pocket for a few moments, then snapped out a switchblade and put it to Chas's throat.

"Don't move, man, I'll cut out his throat," he said, glancing at the body on the ground. John glanced back, looking for Kenya- the girl was nowhere to be found.

_The bitch split. I'll bet the second the guns started going off, she ran away and cried like a girl._

"Don't do anything stupid. Let him go," John said, keeping his gun raised.

"Put the gun down or I'll slit his-"

_**BLAM!**_

The guy fell like a puppet whose strings had been cut, and behind him stood Kenya, gun raised and eyes deadly. John stared at her in shock as she lowered the gun and looked up at him.

"I told you I could work a gun, Constantine."

"Would _somebody_ mind untying me?" Chas asked, snapping John out of his temporary stupor. He rushed forward to Chas's side, making quick work of undoing the knots and freeing Chas's hands. The boy's wrists were raw, blood dripping down onto his fingers from the rope digging in, he smelled like beer, and he had two fresh bruises on his face.

"Jesus, Chas, I'm sorry," John said, pulling Chas close. Chas leaned against him and let out a shaky breath.

"M'okay, John, but…how the hell did you find me?"

"I'll explain later. Let's get you home and let the cops and reporters know you're okay," John said, and Kenya pulled Chas away from John long enough for a hug.

"I was worried about you, you loser."

"Come on, you think I'd let a kidnapping kill me off?" Chas asked with a smirk, and then he looked up at John.

"They slipped. One of them mentioned getting paid by Dextera to do this."

"I knew it," John muttered, but then the anger quickly turned into an absolutely evil smirk. "Chas…are you feeling up to defending your title this weekend?"

"Damn right I am. Why?"

The wheels were turning, Kenya and Chas could see that much in John's eyes. John's smirk grew, and moments later he was walking toward the car and walking at the same time.

"The cops aren't gonna believe Dextera was in on this, even with the bodies and your testimony. He's too high up on the food chain to go after. But…I think I have an idea to prove our case, and all you've gotta do is play this weekend and play well…but not well enough."

Chas looked at John incredulously. "What are you talking about?"

John stopped, grabbing Chas's shoulder lightly. "I need you to force a playoff with Dextera. The rest is up to me and Kenya here…who will be your caddy."

"I already have a caddy-"

"Take my word for it…you want Kenya to be your caddy this time. Explain it off however you want."

Chas looked at Kenya, who was practically vibrating with excitement. Chas shrugged, and Kenya looked at John and grinned.

"What else do you want us to do?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Warning: This chapter has a sex scene, boy on boy, nothing graphic. Pretty mild, certainly. You've been forewarned.**

**

* * *

**

The eighteenth green, the last day of the Masters tournament.

Everything had gone according to plan thus far. Chas was studying a seventeen foot putt for the win, and Dextera had finished already, one stroke behind.

If Chas made this putt, he'd win outright. He knew if it were any other competition, any other circumstances, he'd make this putt no problem. He knew this green like the back of his hand; fairly fast, a slight break to the right.

But he'd made John a promise.

He looked up from the line of the putt and met John's gaze. Chas smirked.

As Chas stood up to take the putt, Dextera pushed through the crowd to the front line, having changed into a suit. It didn't bother Chas; he took a few practice swipes, then stood up and swiped at the ball, arching his swing forward at the tail end of the swing.

It worked. The ball rolled faster and faster, the crowd began to murmur, and at the last second the ball rolled five inches to the right of the cup.

To anyone else, it looked like he's simply had a case of nerves and slightly miscalculated the break. As the crowd groaned, Chas smiled and tapped in.

Tied. Just as planned, he'd pulled Balthazar into a playoff. The crowd was disappointed, but Chas wasn't worried.

He looked up at John, and had the overwhelming urge to just run up and kiss him. But the applause around him and Dextera's smug stare reminded him that it simply couldn't happen.

"Good job," Kenya said, taking his putter and putting it back in his golf bag.

"You too. I should just keep you as my caddy all the time," Chas said, hugging her and taking the bag back to carry it for her back to the clubhouse. There was a party for the players, caddies, and invited guests to celebrate the end of the official tournament- and, this year, to pep everyone up for the upcoming playoff.

John caught up with them after a few moments, and Chas barely caught himself, avoiding the urge to lean in for a kiss.

"You played well," John said, and Chas smiled.

"Obviously not well enough," he said, his tone teasing. "What a horrible, horrible shame."

John smirked and gave Chas a playful nudge with his elbow. Kenya rolled her eyes and held open the door for them, and Chas set his golf bag in a separate room before heading in to the party.

Within an hour of the party beginning, most people had a nice buzz going from champagne and wine. Chas and John were no exception. Sitting beside each other at the table, they were hardly able to keep their hands off each other. Legs touched, hands roamed, all under the tablecloth, and the other people at the table were oblivious to Chas's flushed face and John's mischievous smirk.

During a particularly dry spell of conversation, Chas looked over and met John's gaze. John licked his lips.

"I'm not feeling so good. I think I'm gonna head home," John said to the table, and no one took any notice other than to tell him to 'get better before the playoff'. John gave Chas one last look, then stood up and headed out the door.

Chas could barely stand the wait. He waited ten minutes, and then excused himself from the table to go mingle with other players.

He headed for the door, and the moment he got outside, John grabbed his sleeve and dragged him toward the nearby parking lot. Silently, they made sure no one was around, and then Chas fumbled to get the back door to his limousine open.

John pushed Chas in first and then took one last look around before sliding inside after him, and the moment the limo door slammed shut clothing was flying in every direction. It was as if they hadn't touched each other in years; everything was desperate and fast, the moans harsh and the movements rough, Chas pushing John down on the seat and taking charge.

Anyone who caught sight of the limo would certainly know something was going on, but neither party inside cared about the fact that the whole vehicle was rocking and that their muffled moans and cries could be heard from the outside. Chas had never been a quiet lover, and now was no different.

Bodies rocked and thrust in time, skin tingled, hands roamed and gripped with bruising strength; Chas was in absolute ecstasy, his toes curling, his hands gripping at John's shoulders.

"A-Ah! John!"

He arched his back, gasping, muscles tensing and spasming, nerves firing at random. John groaned, a few more sharp thrusts, and Chas's nails dug in, breaking the skin on John's shoulders. Soon movements became more frantic, less rhythmic, and both reached their peak, shuddering, Chas throwing back his head and letting out a final, uncontrolled groan before collapsing on top of John.

John gently kissed Chas's neck as they both came down from their high, and Chas closed his eyes, trying to catch his breath. He felt John's hand run through his hair, and he hummed appreciatively.

"Love you," he said breathlessly, too exhausted to move. He felt and heard John chuckle beneath him.

"Love you too."

* * *

** The Next Morning **

Once again, the frenzy of the press was coming down on Chas. Press conferences were the least favorite part of his career, with the reporters asking constant annoying questions. It baffled Chas as to why they would schedule one the morning of a playoff, but he was used to it. Used to most of it, anyway.

"Mr. Kramer, why do you think you missed the putt at eighteen yesterday?" One reporter asked, and Chas smiled.

"A simple matter of misjudging a break, ma'am. You might say I wasn't quite myself yesterday."

A few scattered chuckles, and another reporter raised his pen in the air to get Chas's attention.

"What do you have to say about the scattered reports of your activities at the party last night?"

Chas leaned forward, quirking an eyebrow. "I hadn't heard these 'scattered reports'," he said, holding up a hand to fend of Ferguson, who obviously wanted to shut the reporter up before he said anything possibly incriminating. Chas wanted to hear this one.

"I've heard from two reputable sources about some quite interesting noises coming from your limo after you left the party," the reporter explained, sending a murmur through the other reporters.

Ferguson paled by about ten shades. However, Chas wasn't fazed by the comment; rather, it amused him to no end.

"I'm not going to deny the rumors," Chas said, fueling an interesting reaction from his listeners and a yelp of protest from Ferguson. "Although I wish my private life was just that- _private_- I doubt you'll leave me alone until I tell you that much."

Questions were flying all over the place, and Chas took a few moments to calm Ferguson down before taking the next question.

"Who's the lucky girl?"

Chas had been expecting that one too. "I'm sure most of you know Kenya stayed in that party late, so I'd appreciate her if you don't harass her with questions when it quite obviously wasn't her. But I'm afraid that I can't answer your question more than that."

Another burst of question. One voice called out, "Why does she want to remain anonymous?"

Chas smiled, ignoring Ferguson kicking him under the table, trying to get him to shut up. "My fame bothers my partner. I can't blame h-…them, since I know how nosy all of you can be."

That gained a laugh, since Chas had found most reporters to be quite willing to laugh at themselves. Slowly he and Ferguson managed to direct the conference back to the subject of golf, although the crowd was much more spirited after the news of the morning.

Chas Kramer had finally admitted to having a 'girlfriend'. A lover. This would no doubt be heartbreaking and yet giddying news for fans all over the US.

As soon as the press conference was over, Ferguson dragged Chas into a side room in the clubhouse and slammed the door.

"Do you realize what you've done?" he asked harshly, grabbing onto Chas's arm. "You've just put yourself on display as a _whore_ out there!"

Chas felt a flare of anger. "I'll have you know I am _not_ a whore. As opposed to you going through _three wives_ in the past five years, I've been with the same person all along."

"This person whom I've never met, never even heard her name! I'm your _agent_, Chas, your _manager_, you're supposed to trust me and tell me these things!"

"I just don't think it's a good idea."

Ferguson practically growled. "It's not a matter of what you think, it's a matter of what the public is going to think."

"Well, he doesn't want the public to know yet, okay?"

Utter silence. Chas's hand flew to his mouth, and Ferguson's eyes widened.

"He? He? Please tell me you didn't just say that Chas, please," Ferguson said, his voice tense and harsh. Chas didn't say anything, stuttering helplessly in the face of his slip.

"Well, no fucking wonder you wouldn't tell me a damn thing. You're a damn fag."

Chas looked up, his expression shifting into fury. "Don't call me that."

"That's exactly what it is, Chas! Do you realize what's going to happen when this hits the press? Do you realize-"

"Nobody knows. Nobody has to know."

"Somebody's going to find out when you're fucking him in a public parking lot! Who is it, anyway?"

"That's it," Chas said, shaking his head. "That's it. You're fucking fired."

Ferguson's jaw dropped. "You can't fire me! I'm the one that made you famous!"

Chas sneered, reached over to his golf bag, and grabbed his seven iron out of it. He advanced on Ferguson, the club in his hands, and the nervous man took a few steps back.

"You didn't make me famous. _This_ made me famous. Not you, not my age, not my personality…it was the fact that I could pick this up and stick the ball to any green within reach. And the fact that I'm _gay_ won't change the fact that I can outdrive you by two hundred yards and you're still bitter about it."

Ferguson cowered, his eyes locked on the club in Chas's hands as a tense silence fell between the two. Chas stared him down a few moments longer.

"You're fired. Now get your ass out of my sight," he said, lowering the club. Ferguson scampered off as fast as his feet would carry him. Chas sighed, shoving the golf club back into the bag.

His own words were going to plague him the rest of that day, or so he guessed.

* * *

** The Match – Hole Sixteen **

The lead had been trading off all morning, but it was at hole sixteen when the power shifted.

Dextera, doing his usual power act of completely ignoring his competitor, tried his best to clear a fairway bunker that most people would hit short of, just to be on the safe side. But the half breed made a poor club choice to do the task, and soon he found himself in the sand.

Chas decided not to follow Dextera's faulty example. He'd been laying up short of the sand trap all week, it worked best that way on a dog leg like this, so he saw no reason to change. He was on the green in two.

Balthazar was not so lucky. It took his two hits to get out of the sand, and then he was obviously flustered- he three-putted the green, giving Chas a three stroke lead.

Three strokes up with two holes to play- even the crowd knew this one was in the bag.

Chas caught up with Dextera to walk beside him on the way to the seventeenth, and Kenya did the same, staying close enough so that their little plan would work.

"Looks like your little kidnapping plot didn't quite work," Chas said, knowing that they were walking far enough from the crowd that no one could overhear except Kenya. Dextera looked at Chas, then at Kenya, a self-possessed smile on his face.

"Yes, well, you know what they say about getting a job done right."

"I doubt you would've done it yourself anyway."

"And deal with your smart-ass attitude for that long?" Dextera asked with a laugh, faking a smile for the crowd. "I think hired help is better in that case. I may have killed you anyway."

"They were going to if John hadn't shown up."

"All the better. At least they knew how to follow orders."

The conversation ended there. Chas was satisfied-they'd gotten what they needed from him, and Dextera blew him off at that point to go speak with his caddy.

Coming to the eighteenth green, most people in Dextera's position at five strokes down would've conceded the match. But Balthazar wasn't like most people- he wanted it played out to the end.

Chas wasn't thinking about the match anymore. He was thinking about John, thinking about that night when John asked him about going public with their relationship. It wasn't like John to say such things, so obviously it was important to him.

Chas knew that if they went public, he would lose his sponsors. His income would be based solely on other publicity, public appearances, and of course, his winnings.

Chas watched Dextera putt out, looking furious and defeated.

_You're already a millionaire, Chas. You're set for life. What are you so afraid of?_

Chas stepped up, lined up his putt, and looked up at John. John smiled. Chas smiled back.

He stepped to the ball, took a practice swipe, and then scooted forward and hit the ball. A simple four foot putt, and it dropped into the hole with a hollow clatter.

_It's now or never._

Without waiting for the crowd's reaction to his victory, he strode over to the edge of the green, grabbed John by the back of his neck, and pulled him into a hungry, passionate kiss.

John seemed surprised at first, but as soon as he realized what Chas was doing, he reacted by returning the kiss and wrapping one arm around the young man's waist. Chas's putter dropped from his hand onto the green as he wrapped his arms around John's neck.

Most of the crowd was flabbergasted, but Kenya stepped forward at that point and got the crowd's attention with a loud whistle. It took a few moments for them to settle down, but they did so as she pulled a small tape recorder out of her pocket.

"Since Chas is otherwise occupied, I'll do the honors," she said, turning the volume on the recorder to the maximum and holding it up as she pressed the play button.

Dextera's façade of calmness slipped when a playback began of their conversation between the 16th and 17th holes, the conversation in which he not only admitted guilt, but basically threatened Chas. People shushed each other, shocked at what they were hearing, and Chas and John finally broke off the kiss, oblivious.

"I love you," Chas said to John, ignoring the pandemonium around them. The two were locked in their own little world, a place where nothing and no one could touch them.

_The weird thing is, _Chas thought, _I feel more safe and happy now than I ever did when this was all a secret._

He smiled, kissing John again, just a quick and gentle kiss. John murmured an 'I love you' in return, his heart pounding in his chest at the feeling of finally being able to express this anywhere, anytime.

Chas never regretted what he did that day.

Dextera did.

* * *

Thanks to all my reviewers! Hope you guys and gals liked the story.  



End file.
